Chapter 14
Laurent dropped to his knees, Lily’s body cradled in his arms. She was still unconscious. He gently set her on the foyer floor. The blood seeping from her wounds called to every vampire in the house like a siren’s song.
In her weakened state, it took every ounce of his control not to curl protectively around her. Anyone who took a step in her direction would die by his hand. They knew it too, so they hovered in his periphery, Kian, Lixin, Marco, Vittorio, Zola…
“Out,” he roared. They might have been his family, but he was seconds from losing it.
Kian and Lixin were the first to disappear. Vittorio and Zola hesitated before following. Marco took a step toward him.
He lifted his head, bearing his teeth. A growl simmered in his throat.
“I know what you are thinking, sire. The risk is too high.”
“You dare?” Rage coursed through him like molten steel. “You dare?!” The words erupted from his chest in a snarl.
Marco flinched. “There was no way we could have anticipated—“
“I gave you one job. One fucking job. And you failed. We wouldn’t be in this situation, otherwise.”
But that wasn’t entirely true. Even though he couldn’t admit that. Not right now.
“She needs too much blood, Laurent. You know what will happen if she gets it. The addiction. The secrets.”
“I know exactly what I’m doing.” His voice shook the walls.
Marco swallowed, then nodded. “Then let it be my blood, or Zola’s, or anyone who carries less dangerous memories than you—“
“No,” he snapped. “She’ll have mine. Mine alone.”
Marco gave a jerk of his head. “I can stay—“
“Leave.” The command was barely above a whisper, more dangerous than any shout.
Marco fled.
Only then did he strip away her hospital gown.
She’d been naked when he’d found her. The ruin of her body was seared into his memory, mingled with the rancid scent of her urine and feces.
They’d left her on a surgery table, tethered and broken like an animal—the culmination of seventy-two hours of torture.
Seventy-two hours of him pacing like a caged beast, calling in every favor just to find her.
All while imagining the horrors of her fate.
It had been many years since his last fit of rage—seventeenth century sometime, when Berric had been murdered.
Seeing her there, so close to death, clinging to life when most humans wouldn’t have.
His rage had overpowered him and he’d ripped every fucking witch to shreds, not a single one left alive.
He’d burned the entire facility to the ground, including the vials they’d taken from her.
Exhaustion clawed at him now—the rescue, the slaughter, the rush to get her home—but he pushed it aside. She needed him.
He took stock of her lying on the marble floor, her chest barely rising and falling. Even the sound of her labored breaths made his gut clench. His own hands trembled, whether from fear or fury, he couldn’t tell.
Dark bruises fanned out over her chest. Broken ribs, most likely. But that was the least of her injuries.
A knife twisted his insides. Guilt? No. He shoved it down. Guilt was for weaker creatures. He’d killed twenty-nine amplifiers. There’d been no guilt then. There should be none now.
But…never had he made them suffer.
This was… She’d suffered… She’d hurt. Because of him. Because he’d underestimated Dominic’s power.
He lifted his wrist, ruthlessly biting into it. Blood oozed, rushing from his veins. He let it drip over the worst of her wounds, let it come into contact with her open flesh, speeding the process of her healing.
They’d branded her. They’d fucking branded her with their witch mark. His vision tunneled until red spots filled his eyes. He dripped his blood over it, daring to hope, but it did nothing to erase the mark, only soothed the raw skin.
He moved on, pouring his blood where he could.
He bit into his wrist again and again, reopening his skin each time it closed.
Then he gently lifted her head and worked her jaw open.
Her tongue moved against his skin. “Swallow, little flower. It will make you better,” he encouraged, keeping his voice soft.
Behind her lids, her eyes darted back and forth as if stuck in a nightmare. She whimpered. The sound made him flinch.
At last, her throat began to work. “That’s a good girl.
Drink.” She choked down swallow after swallow as his blood pooled in her mouth, smearing her lips and chin.
Every time his wrist began to close, he savagely ripped it open again.
He continued to ply her with his life force, even when he was certain she’d had enough.
His touch lingered upon her, even as his muscles began to relax.
Her pallor faded, a flush returning to her pale cheeks. He rested her back on the marble, loathe to remove himself from her presence. But his blood was working through her body. There was nothing more to do but wait.
The first crack made his teeth clench. Then came another, and another, and another. Bones snapping back into place. She whimpered with each one, a tiny line pulling between her brows. He forced himself to look at her fingers, those beautiful fingers, as they straightened.
His mind betrayed him and a torturous thought crept in. He wondered what it might have done to her to lose the ability to play. What it might have done, had she lived to discover her fingers misshapen. Her music stolen from her.
He’d done this to her. He’d miscalculated.
It wasn’t the first time. People had suffered because of him, died because of him.
He’d lost aunts and uncles, brothers and sisters, children, grandchildren, friends, acquaintances.
It was the cost of running a household, the cost of making difficult decisions, year after year, century after century.
In time it got easier. He’d learned to detach himself, to harden his vampiric heart. But this? This felt…different.
His jaw ached, clenched tightly as he waited.
Lily’s chest rose and fell more smoothly.
He studied the shape of her, the smooth skin, the dusky pink of her nipples, her full breasts, the flat planes of her stomach, emaciated from lack of food, the lithe muscles running down her body, her legs, the tuft of hair on the mound of her sex—his eyes lingered there a moment, unconsciously.
Her pulse began to slow. He watched as her lips gently parted. The eyes beneath her lids grew less frantic. It would take time for her to heal, for her mind to recuperate.
Would she make a full recovery? Would she ever be the same? His fist clenched against his thigh. He forced the thoughts to stop. He didn’t care—he didn’t. He couldn’t be bothered. She was a weapon. A tool. A human. An asset to be protected—
“You’re a fucking prick, Laurent,” came the smoky hiss behind him.
He tensed. There was only one woman in the world who dared speak to him like this.
She’d bottled her reprimand, disgust, and anger into a single statement.
He’d always let her get away with far more than the rest. “You knew the risk and you did it anyway. You handed that poor, broken girl to the wolves thinking you had everything under control.”
He frowned, grinding his teeth together.
“Normally, I’d let it go. But I cannot. Not this time. I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you admit it, you bastard.”
“Fuck off, Zola.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. Admit it or I’m out—I’m done.” He went completely still. “You don’t think I’ll do it? You don’t think I’d leave this family?”
A fraught silence stretched between them before he finally said, “I made a mistake.” Words he’d never say to anyone else.
They tasted bitter on his tongue. Their relationship had always been different.
It was said that fathers had soft spots for daughters.
He’d had many daughters over the ages, some still alive, others lost. Zola had been different.
She’d been his creation during a dark time, and bringing her immortality had brought him a simple joy that he’d almost forgotten in those days.
She stepped from the shadows. “You’ve done some fucked up things in your lifetime, Laurent. But this? It’s hardly the worst of it, and yet it feels like the biggest mistake you’ve ever made, if only because at this point, you should know better.”
His whole body jerked as if she’d struck him. The hands he tangled in his own hair were bloodied. “Fuck.”
“Yes. Good. I’m glad you understand.”
His chest rose and fell. He didn’t need to breathe. But sometimes, his body resorted to old habits.
“Tell me,” she said. “When you brought her here, did you take the time to run a background check? To dig into her past?”
His brows furrowed. “Why would I? Marco looked into her.”
“But you couldn’t be bothered?”
“No. She’s a tool, a weapon, nothing more.”
“Is that really what you believe?” Zola stepped closer, her voice deadly quiet.
“Is that why you went to so much effort to get her back? Why you risked everything?” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
“Laurent, you risked inciting an entire fucking war between vampires and witches. You stormed their compound.”
“I killed everyone on the premises. There won’t be any witnesses, no evidence—“
“That’s not my fucking point!” she roared.
He sagged, still crouched beside Lily’s naked body.
His eyes fixed on the brand, the witch mark, marking her as their property.
Red spots prickled his vision. He blinked them away.
The deal he’d made he’d gotten in writing.
Despite that, it had always been his intent to double cross them.
But now, now there was evidence of what he’d done right here on her flesh…
He didn’t fucking care. “She’s mine,” he snarled, as if that explanation put it into simpler terms. The words came out possessive, primal, surprising them both.
Silence fell between them.
At last, Zola said, “Would you like me to take her upstairs? She needs a bath. I can get her settled.”